II
The inquest took place two days later. In the meantime other evidence had come to light. A tramp had admitted that he had climbed over the wall into the Leigh House garden, where he often slept in a shed that was left unlocked. He declared that at twelve o’clock he had heard two men quarrelling loudly in a room on the first floor. One was demanding a sum of money; the other was angrily refusing. Concealed behind a bush, he had seen the two men as they passed and repassed the lighted window. One he knew well as being Mr Protheroe, the owner of the house; the other he identified positively as Mr Parker.
It was clear now that the Parkers had come to Leigh House to blackmail Protheroe, and when later it was discovered that the dead man’s real name was Wendover, and that he had been a lieutenant in the Navy and had been concerned in the blowing up of the first-class cruiser Merrythought, in 1910, the case seemed to be rapidly clearing. It was supposed that Parker, cognizant of the part Wendover had played, had tracked him down and demanded hush-money which the other refused to pay. In the course of the quarrel, Wendover drew his revolver, and Parker snatched it from him and shot him, subsequently endeavouring to give it the appearance of suicide.
Parker was committed for trial, reserving his defence. We had attended the police-court proceedings. As we left, Poirot nodded his head.
‘It must be so,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Yes, it must be so. I will delay no longer.’
He went into the post office, and wrote off a note which he despatched by special messenger. I did not see to whom it was addressed. Then we returned to the inn where we had stayed on that memorable weekend.
Poirot was restless, going to and from the window.
‘I await a visitor,’ he explained. ‘It cannot be—surely it cannot be that I am mistaken? No, here she is.’
To my utter astonishment, in another minute Miss Clegg walked into the room. She was less calm than usual, and was breathing hard as though she had been running. I saw the fear in her eyes as she looked at Poirot.
‘Sit down, mademoiselle,’ he said kindly. ‘I guessed rightly, did I not?’
For answer she burst into tears.
‘Why did you do it?’ asked Poirot gently. ‘Why?’
‘I loved him so,’ she answered. ‘I was nursemaid to him when he was a little boy. Oh, be merciful to me!’
‘I will do all I can. But you understand that I cannot permit an innocent man to hang—even though he is an unpleasing scoundrel.’
She sat up and said in a low voice: ‘Perhaps in the end I could not have, either. Do whatever must be done.’
Then, rising, she hurried from the room.
‘Did she shoot him?’ I asked utterly bewildered.
Poirot smiled and shook his head.
‘He shot himself. Do you remember that he carried his handkerchief in his right sleeve? That showed me that he was left-handed. Fearing exposure, after his stormy interview with Mr Parker, he shot himself. In the morning Miss Clegg came to call him as usual and found him lying dead. As she has just told us, she had known him from a little boy upward, and was filled with fury against the Parkers, who had driven him to this shameful death. She regarded them as murderers, and then suddenly she saw a chance of making them suffer for the deed they had inspired. She alone knew that he was left-handed. She changed the pistol to his right hand, closed and bolted the window, dropped the bit of cuff-link she had picked up in one of the downstairs rooms, and went out, locking the door and removing the key.’
‘Poirot,’ I said, in a burst of enthusiasm, ‘you are magnificent. All that from the one little clue of the handkerchief.’
‘And the cigarette-smoke. If the window had been closed, and all those cigarettes smoked, the room ought to have been full of stale tobacco. Instead, it was perfectly fresh, so I deduced at once that the window must have been open all night, and only closed in the morning, and that gave me a very interesting line of speculation. I could conceive of no circumstances under which a murderer could want to shut the window. It would be to his advantage to leave it open, and pretend that the murderer had escaped that way, if the theory of suicide did not go down. Of course, the tramp’s evidence, when I heard it, confirmed my suspicions. He could never have overheard that conversation unless the window had been open.’